The Man Thou Gavest eBook

“So you-all depend upon her safety for your
safety! Take it—­and be damned!
She’s been with me—­yo’ followin’
me? She’s been with me, rightful married
and happy—­happy! From now on I’ll
manage lil’ Nella-Rose’s doings, and the
first whisper from man or woman agin her will be agin
me—­and God knows I won’t be blamed
for what I do then! Tell that skunk of yours,”
Lawson glared at the terrified Marg, “I’m
strong enough to outbid him with the devil, but from
now on him and you—­mind this well, Marg
Greyson—­him and you are to be our loving
brother and sister. See?”

With a wild laugh Burke took to the woods.

CHAPTER XIV

Two years and a half following William Truedale’s
death found things much as the old gentleman would
have liked. Often Lynda Kendall, sitting beside
the long, low, empty chair, longed to tell her old
friend all about it. Strange to say, the recluse
in life had become very vital in death. He had
wrought, in his silent, lonely detachment, better even
than he knew. His charities, shorn of the degrading
elements of many similar ones, were carried on without
a hitch. Dr. McPherson, under his crust of hardness,
was an idealist and almost a sentimentalist; but above
all he was a man to inspire respect and command obedience.
No hospital with which he had to deal was unmarked
by his personality. Neglect and indifference
were fatal attributes for internes and nurses.

“Give the youngsters sleep enough, food and
relaxation enough,” he would say to the superintendents,
“but after that expect—­and get—­faithful,
conscientious service with as much humanity as possible
thrown in.”

The sanatorium for cases such as William Truedale’s
was already attracting wide attention. The finest
men to be obtained were on the staff; specially trained
nurses were selected; and Lynda had put her best thought
and energy into the furnishing of the small rooms and
spacious wards.

Conning, becoming used to the demands made upon him,
was at last dependable, and grew to see, in each sufferer
the representative of the uncle he had never understood;
whom he had neglected and, too late, had learned to
respect. He was almost ashamed to confess how
deeply interested he was in the sanatorium. Recalling
at times the loneliness and weariness of William Truedale’s
days—­picturing the sad night when he had,
as Lynda put it, opened the door himself, to release
and hope—­Conning sought to ease the way
for others and so fill the waiting hours that less
opportunity was left for melancholy thought. He
introduced amusements and pastimes in the hospital,
often shared them himself, and still attended to the
other business that William Truedale’s affairs
involved.

The men who had been appointed to direct and control
these interests eventually let the reins fall into
the hands eager to grasp them and, in the endless
labour and sense of usefulness, Conning learned to
know content and comparative peace. He grew to
look upon his present life as a kind of belated reparation.
He was not depressed; with surprising adaptability
he accepted what was inevitable and, while reserving,
in the personal sense, his past for private hours,
he managed to construct a philosophy and cheerfulness
that carried him well on the tide of events.